


Et Lux Solis Obumbratio

by avislightwing



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Rewrite, Gen, Heavy Angst, Light Angst, Love Triangles, M/M, Multi, Possible Character Death, basically all kinds of angst be warned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-10 06:14:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11685747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avislightwing/pseuds/avislightwing
Summary: ACOWAR rewrite. Expect a lot of gayness, worldbuilding fixes, and such.From the end of my slightly changed ACOMAF:Nesta slammed into Lucien, grabbing Elain from his arms, and screamed at him as he fell back,“Get off her!”Elain’s feet slipped against the floor, but Nesta gripped her upright, running her hands over Elain’s face, her shoulders, her hair –“Elain, Elain, Elain,”she sobbed.Cassian again stirred – trying to rise, to answer Nesta’s voice as she held my sister and cried her name again and again. He looked up – just managed to raise his head enough –But he was staring over Nesta’s shoulder.At Lucien – whose face he had finally taken in.Dark hazel eyes met one eye of russet and one of metal.Nesta was still weeping, still raging, still inspecting Elain –Lucien’s hands slackened at his sides.His voice broke as he whispered to Cassian, “You’re my mate.”





	1. Sometimes My Thoughts Are Like Flames

Lucien’s back was hurting again.

No – not his back. It still did hurt at times, sharp phantom pains coupled with a whip’s snap in his ear. This was different. It was above his back – apart from him but not. By this time, he knew what it was.

He’d tried to deny it at first. It was impossible. _Impossible_. But then he’d woken up in the middle of the night only days after the Hybern fiasco writhing in his sheets, drenched with sweat, teeth clenched against a scream of pain. His chest hurt as well – a strange hurting, like someone had tied a string around his heart and was pulling on it with all their strength, nearly wrenching it from his ribcage.

Lucien had yanked himself from his bed, stumbled to the washroom, and emptied the contents of last night’s dinner into the washbasin. It wasn’t until he’d stopped heaving and was leaning against the bathroom wall, eyes closed against the pain, that he realized what it was.

It was obvious once it had come to him. He’d seen everything that happened in Hybern, after all.

_Wings_.

At the thought, Lucien had barely been able to lurch back to the basin before retching uncontrollably once more. That male’s – Cassian’s – _his mate’s_ wings had been shredded, and now he was in so much pain that Lucien wanted to tear at his own back just to make it stop.

Lucien could hear his mate’s scream echoing in his ears. It haunted him night and day – a sound of such unbearable pain that when the magic had died down, Lucien had been surprised to find his own body in one piece. The rest of the time in Hybern had been a blur. His heart had been beating in his ears, only dying down when he tried to help Elain.

It was what had knocked him out of his stupor. He’d been frozen, Cassian’s cry ringing in his ears, but he couldn’t stand it – seeing Elain, seeing Feyre’s sister shoved into the Cauldron. He couldn’t even do anything until afterwards. He’d never felt so useless, not since he was forced to watch as Eris, Beron, Caliban, and the others murdered Valeria.

And then the realization, after he picked Elain up and his stomach turned. That was when he realized that what his heart was pounding out was _mate, mate, mate_ , and the twist of his stomach was because he was holding the delicate High Fae woman instead of the bleeding Illyrian across the room. He’d blurted it out, like the fool he was.

When they’d disappeared, Tamlin had glanced at him with such scorn and derision that he’d flinched. Lucien couldn’t blame him. Son of the High Lord of Autumn, mates with a bastard-born Illyrian of the Night Court. It was, Lucien thought bitterly as he slumped over the toilet, perfectly in line with his luck. Yet another man to love and lose – if not physically than emotionally, for Lucien couldn’t imagine anyone who worked for Rhys would so much as touch him. He could see the hate simmering in Feyre’s eyes day in and day out, and he well knew what Rhys thought of him:  a weak, foolish child with a love of pretty things, and a knack for saying things that get him into trouble.

Slowly, Lucien stood up. Stretched. Rubbed his aching head. Attempted to rub the chill from his bare arms. The bathroom was dim, flickering with the wan light of the three candles that had burst into flame as he’d burst through the door. They cast an eerie, flickering glow around the place, catching in Lucien’s gold eye and reflecting onto the ornate wooden mirror, the marble washbasin.

He made his way back into his bedroom, pushing through the heavy brocade tapestry that served as a door between the rooms. On his way to the dark fireplace, he paused, gazing at his door. Part of him – perhaps a foolish part – had hoped that Feyre would hear him from across the hall and appear to ask what was wrong. But he’d heard not a sound from her room, and he couldn’t blame her. Had he not slept through the night while she tossed and turned and heaved her guts up night after night?

Not that he’d have been able to go to her even if he had thought she needed him. That was when Tamlin had slept in her room, in her bed, and Lucien knew perfectly well what the repercussions would be should Tamlin think for even a moment that Lucien was trying to come between them. He’d lived those repercussions when Feyre had first lived with them – could still hear the snarl in Tamlin’s voice as he told Lucien, in no uncertain terms, that he’d do _whatever he needed to do to break the curse_.

Lucien shivered again. He grabbed his discarded shirt from a nearby chair and pulled it over his head, wincing as it rubbed against the scars on his back, then knelt by the fire. He piled a few logs onto the long-dead coals, then passed a hand over them, fanning the flame that appeared into life. As he sat back, bathing in the warmth and the light that began to permeate the room, he reflected dismally that it wasn’t only Feyre he was missing. It was Tamlin himself, for one. There’d been a time not long ago when they’d been best friends – as close as brothers. Certainly closer than he was with his blood brothers. But if Tamlin wouldn’t even hold Feyre’s hair back for her when she was sick, Lucien could hardly expect the male to do it for him.

And then there’d been Andras. A relationship more than brotherly. Much more.

Lucien drew his knees to his chest and let his forehead rest on them. Andras had been gone for nigh a year now, and the ache had not diminished. If Andras had been there, he would’ve helped Lucien to the washroom, and made him a cup of peppermint tea to soothe his stomach. He would’ve made Lucien get back in bed and lit incense to the Mother for the healing of Lucien’s wounded soul. Lucien had always scoffed at Andras’ devotion; he’d claimed that the Mother, the eddies of the Cauldron, had never given him anything but pain and loss.

_They gave you me, didn’t they?_ Andras had said.

Yes, Lucien thought bitterly, they did. And then they took you away with nothing but an ash arrow and human hatred.

He hadn’t lit incense since Andras hadn’t come home.

No, Tamlin, Andras, and even Feyre were beyond his reach, for one reason or another. He was alone.

Well – not quite.

Lucien felt another tremor run through him, this time not from his own body. Cassian, wherever he was, was awake as well. He’d been woken by the pain in his wings as surely as Lucien had. And now Cassian was cold.

Lucien leaned closer to the fire, feeling it flare in response to his magic. He had no idea if the warmth could pass through the mating bond, but why not? Pain did, and other sensations. The other day he’d felt, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, a hand in his own. He’d jerked in his saddle, arrow flying wide, missing the large-eyed doe he’d been aiming at and sending her bounding away into the forest. He’d stared at his hand, but there were no telltale signs of a glamour. And yet he could feel, as surely as he could feel the smooth wood of his bow, soft fingers gripping his so tightly it almost hurt. At the same time, he caught a faint whiff of a scent that was warm, and clear, and utterly unsuited to the Spring Court. Cardamom and cinnamon – he knew them from the Autumn Court – and something he couldn’t quite identify, like the equivalent smell of drinking deeply from a cool mountain stream.

It didn’t take him long to realize that these things – the hand and the scent – must be what Cassian was sensing. The feeling of the mating bond wasn’t as sharp as it was when Cassian was in pain:  more a gentle tugging than the wrench in his heart coupled with the razor-sharp agony that had downed Lucien only a day before that.

In spite of himself, he’d felt jealous of the owner of the hand. Whoever it was, they were clearly close with Cassian, close enough that their presence was comforting, for the wave of emotion that accompanied the sensations was one of relief and happiness. Lucien had sensed the person a number of times since then – always the same scent and always the same emotions, though they were sometimes deadened with sadness and worry or uplifted with hope.

That figure wasn’t the only one who came to Cassian. There was also another – someone with rough hands and always accompanied by a scent of lilies and leather. Lucien didn’t know who this person was either. Someone else Cassian was close to, but not like with the first. The second’s arrival was usually followed by a surge of emotion so strong that Lucien couldn’t identify what Cassian was feeling.

He didn’t know which person he was more jealous of.

Rhys was there too, of course. Lucien knew his scent from his time as an emissary:  citrus and saltwater. He didn’t pay much attention to these interactions. Of course Rhys was there. It was his Court, after all, and Cassian was his commander. Rhys’s arrival always triggered devotion in Cassian, which didn’t surprise Lucien – though what did surprise him was the wave of pity and anger that always flared for a moment.

He’s angry at Rhys, Lucien realized. But why?

Without sight or sound, he could not come up with a plausible reason, so he shrugged off their interactions. Paid more attention to Cassian’s unnamed friends (perhaps two of the Fae who were there with him in Hybern’s castle?) and how he felt around them, hoping to gain some sort of insight into Cassian’s character, into how he should act if they ever met.

But right now, Cassian was just as alone as Lucien was. No scents wafted to him; no comforting hand smoothed Cassian’s hair from his forehead. Lucien took a strange sort of comfort in this. Here, in this liminal space of loneliness and flickering flame and being awake when everyone else slept, the only people they had were each other. Even if Cassian didn’t know it.

So Lucien sent warmth and comfort down the bond as best he could, not knowing if it made any difference, and eventually, they both returned to their beds and their fitful dreams.


	2. Roots and Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucien's ties to the Spring Court are slowly loosened. Abandoned to Ianthe's tender mercies by Tamlin, Lucien comes to rely more and more on his mating bond with Cassian.
> 
> Tw (this chapter): sexual assault mention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah I'm too lazy to ditch ALL of ACOWAR so...

Meals in the Spring Court, once something Lucien looked forward to, were now a torture he could barely stand. And they were about to get worse.

“Ianthe will be here tomorrow.”

Lucien’s hand tightened on his fork, the bread and lamb he was eating suddenly devoid of flavor. He swallowed hard, but the statement wasn’t meant for him – it was directed at Feyre across the table. She was wearing a light green dress and a look of wide-eyed uncertainty. “But –”

Tamlin cut her off. “I know, I know. But she truly does seem penitent, and I – we – _need_ her help if we are to stand against Hybern.”

Lucien had heard this before:  that Tamlin had never meant to uphold the bargain with the king, that they’d find a way around it. The hard part was that Lucien truly believed that Tamlin was being honest, and that was his intention, but Lucien didn’t know if it was possible.

And he would’ve let the world burn before he let Ianthe get anywhere near him again, with her cloying scent and her too-curious fingers. He’d had quite enough of her on Calanmai. That thought robbed him of his appetite so completely that he set his knife and fork down, unable to even think of eating another bite, despite the fact that the lamb was flavored with rosemary – one of his favorite herbs of the Spring Court, which was saying something. When he’d first fled there from the Autumn Court, he’d been stunned by the lightness, the freshness of Spring Court food, so used was he to the heavy, hot food of the Autumn Court. He craved it at times – the stews and pies and things baked and fried – but mostly, he adored the Spring Court’s food, which spoke to him of a light-heartedness and ease he had not found anywhere else.

Now, though, it stuck in his throat.

“I don’t know,” Feyre said hesitantly, hands clenching. “She sold my sisters out, Tamlin. It’s her fault they’re now in – in _his_ hands. I don’t know if I can just forgive that.”

A good act. Almost impeccable – to Tamlin, that is. Then again, Tamlin had always seen what he wanted to see, and nothing else. Lucien had thanked the Mother daily for that for years. Cauldron boil him, had Tamlin known of Lucien’s waning love for him and his Court – it could’ve been enough to brand him a traitor. Lucien had seen him execute people for less.

All that remained of that love now was a tiny thread of affection and a thin semblance of loyalty. It had been dying for a long time now, but Cassian had swept any vestiges away as surely as a tidal wave destroys a coastal city. Lucien felt nothing for the man at the table now – no jolt of his heart at the sight of long golden hair, no lurching of his stomach at a glance from green-and-amber-flecked eyes, none of the fierce love he’d harbored for Tamlin in his early years at the Spring Court. Not even the steadfast devotion, the unwavering loyalty, that had eventually replaced it. Instead, Lucien’s dreams were haunted by an accented voice, hazel eyes, and dark, dark hair in messy curls.

Lucien didn’t know how he already knew Cassian’s appearance so well. He certainly didn’t see the man for long enough in Hybern to absorb all those details. He suspected they came from the same dreams where Hybern’s magic tore through the room and Cassian screamed as he shielded the shadowsinger.

That’s when Lucien would wake up with his back on fire and despair in his heart so deep he didn’t know whether it was his, or his mate’s, or both.

Tamlin’s claws threatened to spring from his knuckles. “I know,” he said, voice tight. “Believe me, there will be a reckoning for that. But she is still my friend, and I need her.”

Feyre gave a shaky sigh. “All right. I’ll try,” she said.

No one but Lucien noticed faint talons of shadow curl over Feyre’s fingers as they clenched on the arm of her chair.

*****

“Be reasonable, Lucien.”

“No.”

Lucien wouldn’t look at her. He couldn’t look at her blonde hair and teal eyes and blue-grey robes without wanting to vomit at her feet, so he didn’t look at her.

“Feyre forgave me,” Ianthe chided, blinking long lashes at him. “So did Tamlin. Why won’t you?”

He _felt_ her approaching rather than saw it, and caught her wrist in a death-grip an inch from his arm. “Don’t,” he snarled, even as her scent filled his nostrils and choked his lungs. “Don’t try to make nice with me. You may have told yourself stories about Calanmai, but I only touched you to save Tamlin from having to.” _And because you insisted it be me who went with you into that cave_. “As you may have heard,” he continued, “I’m a mated male now and thus do not wish the company of anyone else in my bed.” His voice turned silvery and sweet. “Nothing personal.”

Ianthe’s smile was frozen. “Ah, yes. The Illyrian bastard,” she said softly. “Your mother must be so proud.”

Lucien let out a snarl. “Leave her out of this. And don’t call him that.”

Ianthe reached up and stroked his cheek. He flinched away. “Worried what he’ll think of you when he finds out you fucked me?” she whispered. “Worried you won’t even be good enough for a low, dirty Illyrian?”

Lucien’s hand flew without his bidding and connected with Ianthe’s face with a resounding smack. He immediately paled and took a step back as the red handprint faded from her face.

She took a step towards him, eyes glittering like the stone in her diadem. “You’ll regret that,” she whispered to Lucien. “You don’t know what I’m capable of, fox.” And she whirled and left the room.

Lucien stood motionless in the room for long after she left, and, with nothing else to hold onto, he clung to the bond.

The connection had grown in the weeks it had been forged. He wondered if it felt like this to Cassian – a constant ache, like he was one person in two bodies Sensations, emotions… it now went as far as taste or sound at times. At times like this – when the mating bond was the only solid thing in Lucien’s life – it pulsed like a living thing.

And on the other end was Cassian.

 _Cassian_.

Lucien was half in love with him already. It was like all his life he’d been seeing the world in black and white, and Cassian saw the world in color. All of Cassian’s experiences, his emotions, were so strong they almost felt like Lucien’s own. Maybe it was just the mating bond, but Lucien had a feeling that was truly the way Cassian saw the world. And in moments like these…

Lucien closed his eyes and allowed the cool mountain air Cassian always seemed to be breathing to fill his lungs. He could smell pine, and jasmine. He could also feel a terrible, unrelenting ache in his back, but he’d learned to block that out during his waking hours. The scents of the Night Court washed away Ianthe’s scent of sex and perfume, banished her threats.

He would cross that bridge when he came to it. And even if Cassian rejected the mating bond the moment he saw Lucien, the other man had given him something to live for again, something to ground him. He had always had trouble living for himself – had since Jesminda. He’d lived for Tamlin for centuries, and fuck it if he didn’t want to live for Cassian now.

He would never be able to thank his mate enough for that.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic can also be found on my tumblr at birdiethebibliophile!


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